


Fury and Destruction

by Camfield



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-11 12:27:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1173066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camfield/pseuds/Camfield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hating something doesn't make it right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fury and Destruction

He hated it.

But he did it anyway.

Because there wasn’t enough, sometimes, when he was stuck behind frontliners and far back from the damage and even though he took out enemy after enemy he couldn’t feel their fear, he couldn’t taste the tang of their energon.

And he wanted to. Sometimes it was all he could do to keep himself back. To keep blowing holes in frames that had no real definition. Just centered to kill zones. No designations, no emotions.

Just energon squirting from where their helm used to be. A hole through their chassis where their spark had once spun.

His drive was furious. Swerving and skidding and drifting through the sand as close to the edge of the patrol route as possible. Past rocks and scrubby plants, daring, inviting someone to find him. Nearly crowing with delight as his sensors caught somemech and immediately dampening his own systems into sniper stealth mode. Hidden behind an outcropping with sensory panels flared wide and his rifle already charged hot under his dampener. Targeting lens locked over his optic, laser scope trained on where he could feel the mecha moving closer.

Come on. Just a little more…

He wasn’t too far, not even enough for the shot to be a challenge. A single silent shot that blew out both ankle joints and one that took out his vocalizer as he fell to crash to the ground.

If he contacted Soundwave right away, Bluestreak had less than 5 breems. If it was someone else, he had 10.

Not that he’d know until reinforcements came.

Away went the rifle and out came heavy shell pistols, with metal slugs instead of plasma bolts. The ammo would go in and fragment, connected to a central post by wire thin cables that, when pulled out, ripped through everything they came into contact with. A sharp burst of electricity that would short out motor relays.

Those went into each wrist, each knee joint, and still he pressed forward.

The ‘Con was locked in an open mouth snarl, unable to do more than jerk his frame off slightly to the side. No way to defend himself as Bluestreak finally came within range to drag a claw shaped servo against his jaw. Optics full of hate and ugly desire that made the Decepticon flinch once before jerking his chin up and glaring back.

Good. Bluestreak liked it when they fought back.

Servos ripped apart armor methodically, always aware of his time limit. Digging under plating and ripping outward, pulling it free from bolts and clasps and becoming increasingly angry the further apart the mech came. Snarls as energon flowed freely, his own digits damaged as they dug in further. Pulling out cables, wires, the mech’s whole fuel tank with an angry roar. Ignoring the tremors and shakes of a deactivating frame as systems failed and errors cascaded.

One breem left and the mech is close, he can feel the field weakening. Can feel the life ebbing out from the enemy into the sand. Can hear and feel mecha on their way.

His spike is already pressurized and he releases his panel, energon sticky servo wrapping around it, the other ripping the panel from the other mech and burying himself into the dry valve. Rutting until he feels the frame cooling and then forcing his transfluid tank valve closed, overloading dry and hard and pulling himself away.

They’re close now. Just enough time for him to put his spike away and bring a handful of energon up to his mouth. Drinking and smearing in the same gesture and whipping into a transformation and away. Flying back to the Ark with anger finally receding and guilt welling up all beneath the cover of satisfaction.

Soundwave had been on the comms after all.

Later, in the washracks, he makes sure to lick his servo of every bit of energon he can before allowing the solvent to wash away what’s left.


End file.
